


Decisions like Bullets

by saltyynoodles



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (kind of), Alternate Universe - Military, Amputation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Empire of Japan, Head Injury, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kisses, M/M, No Smut, Non-Graphic Violence, Oneshot, Russo-Japanese War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyynoodles/pseuds/saltyynoodles
Summary: It's the Russo-Japanese War and the boys realize there's nothing like tomorrow. Moments from their lives.





	1. Flower Buds

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey hey!  
> This fic has been in development for a while from me, I've been working on it during breaks from school work :P   
> Welp hope you enjoy (look forward to an epilogue as well)
> 
> >> disclaimer: I don't own HQ or these precious boys

**i.**

_August 1904. Liaoyang, China._

Sugawara Koushi wiped his brow in the heat, leaning on his broom heavily. His uniform was stifling, especially in the unkind Chinese weather. In the Japanese Imperial Army, not even the lowly officers cleaning the temporary barracks could be left in anything but a crisp uniform. _God . . ._ why had he ever left the beautiful Miyagi prefecture? _Oh right_ — there’d been nothing to stay for.

He gave a grim smile at his morbid humor. There wasn’t even anyone to laugh with anymore— Asahi had been moved to the offensive on Port Arthur. Even the quiet giant would’ve been welcome at this point. At least he was a friend. Suga scratched uncomfortably at the chains holding his dog tags. He’d felt so proud getting them, but now, months into the war against Russia, they felt like lead, tugging him down.

Rather than a reassurance, the tags were like iron leashes, binding him to his service and contract.

Suga ran his fingers through his worn hair, wincing at the blisters lining his hand— sweeping had never been his strong suit.

“You look like you’re having fun.” A rough, even voice commented over Suga’s ashen head. He glanced at the man, who had a fair, muscular build and short cropped dark brown hair. Suga bit back a curse when he realized the badges on his breast, alongside a nameplate of _Sawamura, Daichi_ , signified him as a sergeant— two ranks above him. He quickly straightened his back and bowed.

“Sir, I apologize for not noticing your presence.”

The man looked uncomfortable with the formality, “ah, no need for that, Sugawara-san. We’ve actually been in the military for the same time, I remember you from the training group. I merely got promoted from helping out with the infantry in Fu-Hsien. Guess I’m just lucky.” He held out his hand, “please just call me Daichi.” Daichi’s face split into a grin, “honestly I was just looking for some good company. The guys in the sergeant barracks are rather stuffy and loud.”

Awkwardly, Suga shook the firm hand with his non-blistered one, silently cringing at the sweat accumulated on his palm. Daichi . . . despite having a rather fierce resting expression, was quite . . . nice. “Uhm— just— er, _call me Suga_!” he spluttered. Suga felt his face heat up as his hand refused to release, making the handshake far longer than necessary when Shaking Hands With People You Just Met.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried not to further embarrass himself as Daichi giggled— _is this supposed to be adorable?_ The sergeant’s nose crinkled when he laughed, a perfect noise in itself.

Suga pinched his cheeks and groaned to himself— he was getting distracted. “I’m sorry for my lack of entertainment, Daichi-san. I have to clean right now,” he gestured to the broom, “but maybe next time?” he added a hopeful lilt to his voice.

The man clapped his hand on Suga’s shoulder, “of course!” he winked cheerfully. Suga’s throat just about died right then and Daichi showed that grin again. He swallowed, thoughts racing not nearly as fast as his heart.

Daichi gave a brief bow, then departed.

_About there not being anything worth staying for . . . ._

* * *

 

**ii.**

_August 1904. Miyagi Japanese Imperial Army Base._

On the training field, Oikawa Tooru wiped his brow, scowling at the person currently being held in his chokehold that consisted of one arm.

“Honestly, Watachi, if you can't even break out of my hold, those Russo-freaks are gonna eat you alive!” He cheerfully spoke in higher pitched voice, just to piss off everyone in close vicinity, ‘cause why not? _I'm being taken out of this hellhole to the real field soon enough_.

Meanwhile, the man in question was desperately tapping the ground. Rolling his eyes, Tooru released and rolled away, neatly standing up. To think he’d once worked with this man. _How the mighty have fallen_ . Not that Tooru particularly blamed him— it wasn’t like he was as perfectly put together as before. _But even so . . ._

He glanced up at the sun. Just because a war was going on, didn't mean they could slack off in basic training.

“Geeze Oikawa-san, I've already told you that I specialize in backup— not outright confrontation,” Watari rubbed his head irritatedly, smarting from his loss.

Tooru frowned, regardless of Watari’s position, the other men, most of which were rather young, still had much to improve on. He glared at his knee— even though it remained dormant now, he _knew_ the injury hadn't completely healed up. It was the whole reason he'd been sent away from the battlefield. Now he was playing babysitter to newbies. It always acted up whenever he was around Watari or anyone related to _then_.

He’d known sparring had been a bad idea. Tooru scowled to himself.

“Oi, Crappykawa— that's not a very nice expression to be wearing after winning four matches.”

Tooru’s head snapped up at the sound of _his_ voice, mouth already stretching into a grin. _Finally._ Other than Kageyama— who was oftentimes too preoccupied with a certain orange-haired cadet— Iwaizumi Hajime was the only one he enjoyed a good spar with. _Maybe today wasn’t useless._

“ _Iwa-chan_ — I've been waiting for you!”

Iwaizumi shook him off, “god, just call me Iwaizumi, will you?” The same old line, repeated continuously over the years, never failed to make him smile. Tooru grinned at how the sunlight shimmered off of the other man’s black locks. Despite his outward thorny deposition, Iwaizumi was a kind man— _a good soldier_.

A sense of bitterness tinged his attitude, and Tooru’s smile faded. _Battle._ It always seemed to bleed into his thoughts whenever he drifted off.

Yet no matter how much he wanted to leave the training facility, he knew he'd never be placed into command anyways. Once you messed up, command didn't place you back.

Iwaizumi’s expression turned to one of almost concern. “Hey, Crappykawa I know you think you're the center of the universe, but everybody needs to use the feild.”

Tooru scowled, “I can stand up on my own, but thanks Iwa-chan!” The other soldier’s helpful hand predictably shot away at the nickname. _Good_ . He felt his knee twinge and ignored it, instead grabbed a outstretched bottle from another person. He nodded his head in acknowledgement and walked away, _perhaps I pushed myself a little too hard_.

He glanced at Watari, the man’s face noticeably tired. _No. I'll never be able to push myself hard enough_.

After all, there was a reason why only Watari had returned with him from that battle. Only a fool would put Oikawa Tooru back in command after Seijoh’s infamous failure.

Breathing heavily, Tooru dumped the rest of the icy water bottle on his head. And if anything slipped from his eyes— well, it was obviously dust. In a dirt field it was an easily plausible situation. He tried to ignore the dead weight of Iwaizumi’s hand on his shoulder.

* * *

 

**iii.**

“I didn't take you for one who smoked.”

Grey smoke curled around Daichi’s face like a wreathe of poison. Suga kept his expression relatively neutral, unable to rid the slight wrinkle of his nose at the sharp scent. His father had smoked— right until the end. At least Daichi wasn’t a chronic alcoholic— unless those pearly whites were hiding something.

Daichi sighed, shrugging, “gotta do what you gotta do to pass time. Either that or we can lie on the ground along with some omiyage for the Russians, with a target painted on our backs.”

Suga’s face reddened at the brash burst of laughter that came from him from the dark joke. He sat down a few feet from Daichi, a comfortable distance not to make the man think he was repelled by the smoke, but enough to keep personal space. Suga tried not to show how shaken he felt— all day he’d just been in jitters, and the other officer’s piercing gaze didn’t particularly help.

Taking a puff from his gently glowing cigarette, Daichi scrutinized Suga. “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re not quite the type I’d take for joining the military.”

Suga stared at the moon, the letters, despite being printed onto light bamboo paper, feeling like rocks in his pocket. There was pity in Daichi’s gaze. His gut twisted. He’d been there to see him . . . _utterly break down_. The silver-haired man felt a migraine coming on.

“Honestly . . . I don’t take myself for one in the military either.” _Then why did you join?_ The question went unsaid.

Teasing a cigarette from the pack lying between them, Suga held it out. Daichi’s brown eyes looked confused in the light, but he didn’t deny it.

“Now you definitely don’t strike me as a smoker.”

The numbing burn of smoke entering his lungs was almost refreshing. He slowly blew out, idly observing the fire. _There’s always a first._

“I don’t either.”

Suga stiffened as a cold hand grasped his as he made to take another drag. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Daichi gently asked, prying the new cigarette from his fingers. He crushed it out beneath his heel, giving a sheepish grin. “Call me selfish, but I don’t want you to be marred by these. One of us is enough, don’t you think?”

The black box disappeared into his pocket.

It felt like the acrid smoke had refused to leave his lungs, Suga finding it suddenly quite hard to breathe. He licked his lips. _Talk about it?_ Dry laughter bubbled up from him— Suga was more used to prying his friends in attempts to help them, it was odd for anyone to look at him in concern. It was an odd, almost flattering sensation.

“What can I say . . . ?”

Daichi hesitantly moved to hold his hand.

“Anything you’d like to say.”  
Suga wasn’t sure what pushed him to begin, but once he did, it felt like the floodgates had been opened. There was smoke and a distant scent of food cooking— almost nearly like his home. Even though there was only ghosts now, he felt a sense of yearning.

He cleared his throat, “my mother . . . she was a . . . really great person.”

Suga hadn’t taken Daichi for an excellent listener either. Perhaps Daichi wasn’t the only lucky one.

* * *

 

i **v.**

Tooru awkwardly shuffled from the health center, contemplative expression on his face. His eyebrows shot upwards when he realized someone was waiting for him, “ah— Iwa-chan I wasn’t serious when I said you should wait . . . .” He giggled sheepishly, tone of surprise turning to over the top flattery, “you really _do_ care!”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, “I only came ‘cause commander needs you.” Tooru caught the man glancing at his knee support for the smallest second. He nodded to it, “how’s it going?”

The brown-haired man forced himself to keep walking at a steady pace. “Perfect, of course!”

He didn’t mention how his forced “time-out” had been extended. He didn’t mention how his knee ached in the oddest times, like when climbing stairs or staring at the final member of the Seijoh squad. He didn’t mention how he imagined how pretty Iwaizumi’s hair must be in starlight. He didn’t mention the way sometimes he woke up in cold sweats dreaming of his old squad. He didn’t mention how in those times he’d like to knock on the Iwa’s door and curl up in his arms again.

Tooru didn’t talk about nearly an eighth of the things he thought.

He sighed to himself, scratching his head absentmindedly. He must’ve been getting sentimental from the looming doom in the commander’s office— it wasn’t a new feeling, the whole About To Die Thinking Sad Thoughts deal. Except usually .

 _Well, usually allies are on each other’s sides_ . Tooru was ninety-percent sure Commander Ushijima wanted to murder him. _In which case, I may be getting out of here sooner than ever_ , he considered. Tooru always was a positive one. He sighed and put on his Brave Face.

“Wish me luck, Iwa-chan!”

“Shut up.”  
“Will you at least wait for me again?”

Iwaizumi muttered something, and Tooru’s face split into a grin and cheerfully strolled into the office as if the entire army was behind him. He hadn’t actually _expected_ him to say yes.

* * *

 

**vi.**

_August 25, 1904_

Hell— hellfire was raining from the skies.

The air was crisp with smoke and gunpowder, the fierce trill of machine guns making Suga flinch every time he heard it, unsure whether what side it was coming from. Even it was friendly, the chills of peaking over the side and seeing the bodies made him want to retch. His hand pistol lying cold in his hand, used only once to incapacitate a Russian attempting to flank the machine gun he was assigned to.

Suga gave a weak smile at Tanaka, a clean shaven man in charge of the long gun itself, calmly bracing the machine gun to his shoulder. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but Tanaka’s hands seemed to tremble whenever inserting new magazines. Suga lost count of how many— tens, hundreds?

Each row of bullets lined with the blood of men.

He didn’t bother talking— his nauseated self wasn’t any good for conversation, nor would it be audible over the _pap-pap-pap_ of the gun. _Breathe_. Suga shakily cocked his pistol, glancing over at the battle. There was ozone crackling in the air and if he closed his eyes, Suga could almost imagine that he was back in his Miyagi residence, listening to his mother’s tales of dragons warring.

Dragons were sea creatures, guarding over the oceans and taking to the skies at will. He handed Tanaka a new magazine, a brief silence overtaking the small outlook.

_I’d like to leave for the sky._

The quiet was shattered.

“Private Sugawara, Sergeant Daichi requested to see you,” a nurse awkwardly stumbled towards Suga, blood staining his hands. “Forgive me for my informality— there was no extra officers to send to notify you. We just finished emergency surgery.”

Suga’s heart stopped.

 

**vii.**

“Don’t leave this place, Oikawa-san, I beg you—”

Tooru cut Watari off, their tired eyes connecting. “Watachi, orders. After all, I can’t let those Russo-freaks come here and get you, can I?” He tried to ignore the intense feeling of being repeatedly stabbed in the chest by the shorter man’s betrayed eyes. He gave a transparent smile.

Watari grabbed Tooru’s shirt with surprisingly strength, slamming him angrily to the wall.

“Oh? Where was this when we were sparring, hmm?”

“ _Don’t_ screw with me Oikawa. You go out there . . . you _die_ .” His hands were shaking and Watari’s grey eyes began tearing up. Ungraceful gulps came from him. “Don’t do this Oikawa. _We barely made it out last time._ Don't you remem—”

Tooru’s grin died. “ _Don’t screw with_ me _, Watari-san._ ” He forcefully pried the other man off.   _I remember it ever time I close my eyes._ “I’m going— it’s not my fault you’re gonna stay here to piss your sheets every night.” _That was uncalled for,_ Iwaizumi’s voice reprimanded in his mind. _If it makes him quit— even better._ “The military has no place for babies like you.”

 _Stop it—_ no _._ Tooru distantly remembered talking to Iwaizumi, when they had just been boys with dreams of fighting in men’s shoes.

_“Why don’t you ever have any friends?”_

Tooru had given some weird child-logic explanation that was overly convoluted, but even then he’d understood—

Friends were dangerous. Instead, you had to crush them— slam doors onto their fingers until they bled, until they didn’t try knocking anymore. Though it had never quite worked on Iwaizumi— Tooru had never had the heart to break those gentle hands.

His voice turned icy. “If you aren’t willing to learn from your mistakes, just leave Watachi.”

Because for some, god-forsaken reason Tooru had been given a squad again, and he was _not planning on another Seijoh._ But . . . _if the unimaginable happens_ — Watari Shinji damn well wasn’t going to be there. Failure burden was only the captain’s duty to bear.

Tooru turned the corner, coming face to face with Iwaizumi. He sighed, he didn’t feel like squabbling with his old friend. Not now, not again.

“You get colder every time,” the black-haired man noted.

Tooru observed him from the corner of his eye, “yeah well, the stakes rise higher every time. We’re not teenagers on a defined court anymore, Iwa-chan.” The nickname held no inflection, monotone and weary. Tired and so very _un-Tooru_ -like. In a distant, meta way, he was starting to become worried for himself. Twenty-something year olds weren’t supposed to be wasting away on some battlefield, yet here he was, eager to rejoin the fray.

 _Not eager . . ._ but there was definitely an odd sort of . . . _longing?_ He couldn’t name it.

They walked in silence, Iwaizumi never one to idly chat. The pair made their way to the sleeping quarters, stopping in unison by the entrance. Tooru noted the cherry blossoms planted around were blooming— oddly late in the year.

“When do you leave?” he finally spoke.

“Two days,” Tooru exhaled into the midmorning air. He looked at Iwaizumi, who’s calming eyes anchored him.

He wasn’t sure what quite moved him to do it, but his lips suddenly moved their way to his, gently pressing them together into something that was hesitant, yet inviting. It was like rebooting an old machine, reminding the rusted cogs and units how to work together. Slowly, Iwaizumi responded, muscled arms slowly moving to rest on Tooru’s waist. They breathed, once, twice, slowing down their heartbeats until they were in sync.

“Are we really doing this again?” Iwaizumi murmured, rough voice softened with Tooru’s lips. _This—_ us. Once they’d fit together so well, and yet Tooru had forgotten what it was like to be so deeply connected with another person. It felt oddly painful, bittersweet at best. But he didn’t stop.

“I’m not sure.” They kissed again, lightly, testing the waters. “There’s nothing like the end of existence, no?” Tooru spoke softly, breath tickling Iwaizumi’s ear.

The man’s grip tightened on Tooru, and he suddenly remembered— like a man recalling how to speak, how the feather-light touches used to send messages to him. _Stay. Stay like this. I miss it. I miss you._ Despite being a man of few words, Iwaizumi became a kaleidoscope of expression in Tooru’s arms.

_Stay._

“You know I can’t.”

_Stay._

“I’m sorry,” Tooru’s throat choked up.

Stay.

Even their kiss didn’t disguise the taste of salt and tears.

* * *

 

**viii.**

Sawamura Daichi was a literal mess.

Suga’s fingers pulled back at the last moment, unwilling to touch and cause any more pain. The burns traced over Daichi’s left side, most extreme at his shoulder. Once Suga had been a quiet, rather bookish man. Now, he grasped the most official looking man in the room and yanked at his coat lapels, “ _how did this happen?_ ”

The man calmly extracted himself from Suga’s grasp. “The Russians had . . . unexpectedly strong artillery. They were able to break a gas tank, which exploded. Sawamura-san was . . . caught in the immediate explosion when trying to assist a fellow officer.”

The anesthesia was wearing off, and Daichi weakly gripped Suga’s forearm. “Guess my luck caught up to me, huh?”

Tears were already pouring down and Suga sniffled loudly. The doctor left quietly, perhaps out of a sense of consideration, more likely because there were literal hundreds left wounded in similar states to Daichi. The man was one out of nauseating thousands. Their clasped hands squeezed, together and together, a weak imitation of a beating heart. Suga took it as reassurance that the sergeant was still conscious enough to respond to him.

As there were no chairs in the cramped tent, Suga took to kneeling, hand continuing to hold Daichi’s all the while. He tried to calm himself, but to no avail.

“Hey . . . Daichi— would you like me to tell you a story?” he asked gently, partially for himself. A gentle squeeze of affirmative came. He smiled and began, reciting the story he’d heard over and over again, nestled in his mother’s arms as a child.

“Alright— once in Japan, the land was filled with dragons, of all sizes and colors, each with their own abilities. The strongest clan of dragons were called the Iguru. They were cruel and demonic, and controlled Japan and the dragons harshly. But through the years, they got lenient and softened, believing their power was natural. But before they realized it, _bam!_ ” Suga clenched his hand as he said it, making Daichi laugh. “Their power was seized by the clan no one had ever taken for anything— the Karasu, who were weaker in every way, and yet they had beat the fearsome Iguru.”

He paused and Daichi, ever the attentive audience, hoarsely responded, “how’d they do it, storyteller Suga?”

“Teamwork. They used the most of their abilities and brought the mighty Iguru down to it's knees.” The tent fell silent in the wake of the story, but for their soft breathing. Suga glanced over, but was placated by the adorable expression Daichi was making. Could he blame him for wanting rest? Suga gently placed the man’s untouched hand on the white bedsheets.

“Wait,” Daichi blindly scrabbling for the warmth of Suga’s hand tore at him and he quickly reslotted the two together. _They fit well_. “Can't you stay a bit?”

Suga looked over him, making an exaggerated pondering expression. “Oh well _patient_ Sawamura, have you even taken your _medicine_ yet?”

Daichi chuckled and they looked at each other for a moment, stilling with the realization of how _close_ they were, noses almost brushing. Daichi’s breath still smelled of cigarettes. Suga’s face heated up and he made to move, when the other man gently ran his hand through silver locks and lightly sealed the distance between them. It tasted of summer back home, smoke, and the battlefield. It was exhilarating and new. He was surprised to realize _he liked it_.

None of the experiences he'd ever had with others in Miyagi had ever felt as sure and _right_ as Daichi’s lips against his as the world was ending just outside of their little pocket of silence. Suga laughed to himself— how _could_ anything precious ever compare to _this_ : Daichi, the war, simply _living_?

Daichi traced the frozen smile on Suga’s lips, voice worried, “this is alright, right? God, sorry I didn't quite think that through you can leave if you want—”

“I'll stay,” those precious words spoken softly, made Daichi light up like Christmas lights.

 _I'll stay_.

 

**fin.**


	2. Flower Bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Epilogue- After the war)
> 
> Not all heroes get happy endings.

_Sawamura Daichi_

The badges feels like lead on his chest, aching every time he breaths. _War_. It tears everything away— friends, family, the skin on your back until you’re standing butt-naked, torn apart by oncoming bullets.

Daichi still remembers his grandfather teaching him how to fire a rifle.

_“You know how these babies’ shoot so far? Some inventors figured out how to fight air resistance better to gain more distance without compromising the power— they made rivlets on the inside of the barrel so the bullet spun around like a football.”_

His grandfather had always had the greatest faith in human invention. Had it been funny or especially cruel that the sturdy old man had died because of the inability of humanity to save him?

“ _We’ll always manage to pull through. Learn to be strong and others will lend strength to you.”_

Even now, humanity has paid extra close attention to leaving its mark on the Sawamura family.

Daichi traces over his left arm— or where it had once been, grimacing slightly. It didn’t even hurt anymore— only the slightest twinges at night, but not even the soft reassurances of his husband could completely sooth away the nightmares. Suga knew what his eyes said when they glanced away, unable or unwilling to make contact.

“Daichi! I forgot to ask— did you want vanilla or strawberry?” Suga strolls up, two icecreams in his hands, the vanilla precariously threatening to fall.

But Daichi is easily able to tell his unrestful mind that it’s fine, because it’s _Suga_ . The man doesn’t really need to ask— strawberry for him, vanilla for the silver-haired man. That’s the way it’s always been, from the days before he’d given up smoking to now. It’s fine because it's not Russian soldiers trying to kill him sitting on those benches behind them, but Japanese children with their own sweets in hand. _It’s fine_.

He tries telling himself this every day, but his right hand won’t stop trembling.

The couple continues to their visit to the memorial. Nothing quite beats talking to old friends.

* * *

 

_Sugawara Koshi_

“Sorry I wasn’t here for so long,” Suga murmurs softly, kneeling in the backroom of his old family home. He breathes in the incense and carefully arranges the food offerings. The photo on the stand is dusty, yellowed at the edges with age, but to Suga, his mother is just as beautiful as the day the photo had been painted.

His lips barely twitch at the thought. Of _course_ Mrs. Sugawara would never look a day older than in the photo or his mind’s eye— it was the same year she’d died after all. Is this irony? Or perhaps  just his subconscious torturing him.

If his mother were still here, waiting for him in this room, would she have been shocked how her little boy had grown up?

All the other adults had always commended him— _what a positive young boy you have! Look at that smile. Truly a charmer. He’ll grow up well, won’t he now!_

It takes a moment for Suga to realize it’s tears and not the leaky roof that dampens his face. The battlefield has all but completely stripped him of that childish grin, those laughs that feel like sandpaper now, instead of music flowing out.

He feels a hand on his shoulder and Suga bites down his immediate reaction to elbow the assailant. But it’s not an enemy— it’s Daichi. He weakly smiles. Another thing the war has gifted him with— and it’s not medals or fame— it’s sleepless nights thinking every creak in the hallway is an assassin trying to kill them.

“Hey,” Suga croaks.

Daichi helps him up, one arm muscled and still easily able to beat Suga in arm-wrestling any day. “It’s about time to get going shall we, Koshi?”

Suga loves the way his name sounds on his lover’s tongue, the gentle timbre of his voice just making him feel _safe_.

They’ve rented an apartment in the Miyagi prefecture as they prepare their next move. Who knows, he smiles to himself, they might even end up as volleyball coaches or something. Either way, he knows it’s going to be fine with Daichi.

When they get in the taxi their hands are still intertwined.

* * *

 

_Oikawa Tooru_

Tooru touches the cool edge of the hospital bed.

Iwaizumi had always said what a shitty feeling it felt like being on the receiving end of unwavering heroism, in other words, Oikawa. He knows what the man meant now.

He resists the urge to touch Iwaizumi’s prone form that shakes from time to time. It's thin— _too_ thin. It makes him wonder how he ever sparred with the soldier without breaking bones. The man’s fists clench and it’s almost as if he’s having just any old nightmare— _he’ll wake up soon. Then we’ll hug and kiss and he’ll tell me about if over a cup of warm milk and everything will be_ fine.

But it's not. It never _will_ be fine.

The world is cruel. She had held Tooru’s spirit in her palms and with that one explosion, crushed it.

They told him that it had been a shell exploding. He’d been like a demon in his reflexes— because of course Iwaizumi was going to help his teammates. Defend them. Protect them because he was a good soldier.

But who knew all it took to defeat Hajime was a damn rock.

 _A coup-contrecoup head injury. Internal hemorrhaging. Brain damage._ Coma.

“You’re stronger than this,” Tooru whispers. Pleads.

But those ribs, bared by the sagging, sallow skin look far too fragile to be of his Iwaizumi. Muscular pecs that had beat out even Tooru in push ups, pull ups— decompose before him, wasting away in a pristine hospital bed while their host lays trapped in his mind.

Eventually Tooru has to look away. He can’t stand to look at him— when he sees the skeletal body of his friend he can’t help but see more. Other prone forms just like him. Bodies stacked so high it's like a wall. He wants to pretend it's not a machine pumping the oxygen through Iwaizumi.

With carefully controlled movements, Tooru places the flowers on the bedside table. Iwaizumi’s bandaged, bulging head from surgery makes no movement. He watches the man from the corner of his eye.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he says in his soft voice. The voice Iwaizumi has only heard once, and most others, never. It’s the voice he uses on scared animals or dying comrades. It’s Oikawa Tooru without his bite.

“I love you.”

* * *

 

_Hajime Iwaizumi_

Hajime is sitting in the rec room, but for once, it’s silent.

No balls from the pool table being tossed around or used for anything but the proper game. No _clink_ of a cool drink being procured from the dingy vending machines. Silence. It’s calming as well as positively unnerving.

One half of the room is dim, the lights broken. Hajime smiles slightly to himself— some things don’t change. The military is more likely to spend funds on a new set of boots for soldiers rather than fixing a bulb.

“You’re stronger than this.”

Oikawa’s voice is muffled, almost a mumble. Hajime scowls, he always told him to speak up. Though it doesn’t explain how the man got in— _no one_ in the army is better at stealth than him, and he swears the room had been empty.

He’s about to ask when he sees the unmistakable sheen in Oikawa’s eyes. But that doesn’t make sense. _Tooru doesn’t cry. He never cries._

Well— he did, once. But the Seijoh Squad ended a long time ago— forcibly retired as one might say.

“You got dust in your eyes?” Hajime grunts because, honestly, emotions aren’t his forte. Neither is subtle probing— Tooru stays silent.

He finds if he tears his eyes away from his teammate for a moment, it's disturbingly easy to lose the man in the dim shadows. _We definitely should change out the lights._

He tries again— as much as he wouldn’t like to admit it, Tooru is a downright _pain_ when he sticks to grudges. “What’s up?”

Silence.

He’s getting damn tired of only hearing his words echo back at him. Hajime makes to advance on Tooru, when his pale face splits into a weak smile— not even one of his obviously fake ones, because Iwazumi knows exactly what _those_ look like— this is one more like Oikawa can’t even manage anything more than facial twitches.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” The door opens and closes and suddenly Hajime is back to being alone, and the rec room seems all the more lonely without the shouts of his friends.

Quiet.

Then, “I love you.”

Hajime recoils from the words that whisper all around him. He wants to go to sleep and forget— or maybe awaken. It’s been so long he can’t quite remember. All he knows is—

“I love you,” he murmurs back.

He hates it when people mutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> I actually did quite a bit of research for this, learning about some obscure war (that was later overshadowed by WWI) as well as different sorts of injuries. It's actually quite fascinating to read about coma experiences from the lucky that have survived and I recommend reading some.
> 
> All feedback is appreciated :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> Feedback is greatly appreciated~


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